Wanderlust

As I stand in the empty streets, the city seems to hold its breath, bracing for the impact of the stampede to come in the rising hours. A cool, dark wind swirls, bouncing back and forth off the feet of the skyscrapers above. The streets stand soulless aside from a lone Model T. The sidewalk is relieved at this time of night, temporarily absent of the bustling and trampling of industrious nature, new neon lights stretching for a few hundred feet at a time. I love the buzz and flicker of the signs, it’s calming. This time of night is for wanderers, so I wander until I find myself entering Phillies.

I always sit at the second seat, my back to Greenwich Ave - there’s an imprint at this point. The counter is a stained oak, perfect for tapping along to the jukebox playing a slow, lifting jazz as it glides through the air. Pete walks back and forth between the kitchen preparing the early morning pastries that attract any stragglers left on the streets at this hour.

Pete runs the place. He’s quiet, has a wife, and a couple rowdy kids. Does what he has to do to keep the place running. I think he prefers this hour; I know he has his preferred customers. He always nods his head when he sees me coming from the wide glass window facing the street. A skinny, bald man of mild curiosity, he sometimes asks me what I’m doing showing up at this hour. I can never find an answer that will appease his felinity.

“The usual for tonight?” Pete asked, more rhetorically than anything.

“Definitely, been a long day – week even. Gimme the good stuff,” I whispered.

“Find the little guy yet?” he asked, side eying, as he poured.

“Not yet…not yet. Soon though, I can smell it.” Truthfully, the only thing I could smell was desperation and the musk of the German fella from across the bar talking game to a woman clearly uninterested.

“If it was up to me, I would’ve found ‘em by now. How hard could it be?”

“Right, you know how it is though,” I try to say with a dry chuckle. Pete must have sensed my apprehension to speak and left the conversation to me and my mug.

The dew had just started to form, and the sun hadn’t quite decided to hug the horizon when I got called in that night. The mother was in hysterics, wrapped in a towel, begging for mercy or information – whichever came first, her body outlined by the flashing lights. Her wails drowned out the sirens, a primitive screech. I made my way towards the unsuspecting house where an officer on the scene briefed me: a kidnapping, no sign of breaking and entering, no damage, a ransom note, and a ladder.

Before I could gather some sense, hundreds of people gathered around the picket fence, fighting for a word from someone, anyone. The buzz of the crowd refused to settle as shoulders and bodies collided, pining for a better view of the home. The baby, just 20 months old, was taken from his crib, presumably out the window and down the make-shift ladder, with rungs missing, left behind propped against the second-floor window. The ransom note demanded $50,000, an unheard-of amount in this economy since the crash. In the bottom right stood the insignia that would haunt my dreams: two overlapping blue circles surrounding a red circle with three holes – the signature of the kidnapper. I could feel the prying eyes of the Waldorf’s on my neck, awaiting my first assessments.

“Mr. and Mrs. Waldorf, there looks to be no sign of any damage or fingerprints and the crowd outside has trampled any possible footsteps. When was the last time you saw your son?”

“I put him to bed just a few hours ago, right before my bath,” the now-clothed mother managed to say. The husband said nothing.

“How would you like to proceed?” I asked, unsure of where to go from here. There was only so much I could do in the moment.

“Do your job,” was all Mr. Waldorf had to say. He didn’t look sad nor mad. His stern face remained stoic in the wake of the little one’s disappearance, his reputation as an aviation hero and national celebrity preceding him. His gravely face didn’t reveal desperation, but I saw the glint of vengeance in his eyes. His voice didn’t waver as he said this, and I knew what I had to do.

That was two months and five leads ago. Waldorf has plenty of connections, most of which cast me to the side long ago, going beyond the premise of the law to find information. FBI, CIA, the Coast Guard, Capone, you name it was on the case – talk about friends in high places. FDR was calling this the crime of the century by the fireside. I called it another day.

Over the succeeding weeks of the infant’s disappearance, several more ransom letters came, each donning that cursed insignia. I hung them on the walls of my apartment. The red and blue eyes watched as I slept, as I obsessed over the case, as I returned in the darkness of the night, as I salvaged any information I could. The case had evolved into a different species with each ransom note marking its accomplishments. From a $50 thousand ransom, to $70 thousand, to wanting a mediator, to anonymous meetings and phone calls. The ugly scrawl of the kidnapper was hardly more legible than a child’s, as if written by the opposite handiness.

One night, a note came with the child’s clothing attached, a mockery of our devotion. The tiny, blue and white singlet was pinned to the paper with a thumbtack and stained with dirt and splotches of maroon. The note only said, “See you soon” and donned that insignia, this one larger than the others. I called Mr. Waldorf to tell him of the note and he said nothing; instead, a few hours later, he was at my front door. I’d secretly lost hope long ago, but Mr. Waldorf still occasionally reached out for my opinion, so failure wasn’t an option.

“Who do you think did it? Who would do this to me, my child?” he asked me, folding the singlet between his fingers and pressing it against his face. Silence met the air and rang louder than any appealing answer I could provide.

“I would assume it’s someone you know. You’re not exactly a nobody, you know? Someone with vengeance and hate in their heart and needs the money. Know anyone like that?” My question echoed from across the room, into the shadows, before he answered.

“You don’t go through what I do in life and not know many people like that.” Time sat still when we were in a room together, holding us hostage, him and the universe alike, demanding answers. “Do you know what it’s like to lose someone?” he asked me.

“Yes,” was all I said. He looked at me with a softer resonance with that statement.

“You know why I come to you, don’t you?” he continued, pacing around the kitchenette. I only shook my head in response. “You see it for how it is. The dirty, nasty, gritty world that doesn’t bow to anyone. The one that doesn’t have all the answers. I get caught up in the fantasy of my world, bending accordingly, everything goes to plan. But you…you sit in this room,” he motioned to the walls of my apartment, admittedly lacking interior decoration, “this dingy, dark piece of shit, surrounded by the prospects of my burden and still find a way to wake up the next day.” He poured us another drink and finished, “You do it the right way.” We sipped and sat with our clouded minds.

“We will find him,” I said. He smiled at me, affirming my sentiment. He left without another word. I wasn’t sure if it was because he had nothing more to say or he no longer could stand my thoughts on the matter.

Development was at a halt for a month and a half until we were told to give in to the kidnapper’s ransom. $50 thousand in unmarked bills, in which the serial numbers were recorded, and expiring gold certificates were dropped at a random location chosen by the kidnapper. The conditions were no police presence, so only civilians got a sniff of who picked up the parcel. The thief left a note saying the child was in the care of two innocent women outside of town. It was my job to reunite the child with his parents. It was nerve-wracking to think that I would be the first to see the child after his disappearance.

Only about two or three miles away from the city was the location of these supposed “innocent women”. The dirt road leading to the slipshod shed of a home was winding, each bump and patch of gravel loosening the control I had on my nerve. My body slumped left and back to the passenger side door dozens of times before I reached my destination. We rolled to a stop with a screech from the worn brakes, unsure of what to make of the situation. The house looked like it would collapse if I blew on it like a little piglet’s house. The rusted tin roof was partially covered by a blue tarp with the rest of the house mostly boarded up with two by fours, covering nature’s damages. I got out of the car, shutting the door softly as if to avoid the imminent destruction of the shack. Chickens roamed the yard freely, pecking the dirt looking for food like the racoons rummaging through the trash pile by the door. As if guided by the hand of a familiar stranger, my legs took me up the rotting stairs and to the front door.

“Hello? Anyone home?” I said as I knocked, not expecting an answer. I stood shifting my weight to each foot, waiting several minutes for an answer. I was greeted with the creaky door slowly opening, revealing a little old lady.

“Well, aren’t you a stud? What can I do for you today, mister?”

“Ma’am, I’m gonna keep this brief. Are you in possession of a kid, one that isn’t yours?” Her eyes darted from side to side as her face contorted to a look of concern.

“Who’s asking?” she asked. I moved my shoulder to the side to show the officer kicking up dirt as he paced around his car. “Hm. Come with me,” she said before she disappeared back into the cluttered home. I took a step in the door into the kitchen and saw stacks of unread books, the floor covered with trash, towers of bills, scraps of notes, a sink full of dishes, and a collection of cement garden frogs with mosaics on their backs. “Almost got it,” I heard from somewhere amongst the towers of stuff filling the house.

“Okay, no rush,” I say back, unsure of where to aim my answer. I could see the mounds of books and bills inching towards the edges of tables and tilting back against the walls as the little old lady looked for something. The buzz of white noise and static of a tv was emitting from somewhere within as I moved closer to the heart of the trove. The longer she looked, the less I believed the Waldorf’s would see their child that day.

The little old lady popped out from behind a crate of baseballs and loose pills propped up by a bicycle. “A man left this not too long ago,” was all she uttered before handing me an envelope. She inched towards me with a shooing motion as she filtered me towards the door, forcing me to exit. Her wide, deranged eyes said more than she would, she was not fit to take care of a child. “That’s all I know,” was the last thing she said before shutting the door quickly behind me. The wrinkly envelope contained a folded-up note that only said eight words, “…would I burn if the package were dead?”

I crossed their pristine lawn to their picture-perfect home; I imagined the child begging to be found. Its little balled hands reaching for nourishment to his ignorant kidnapper. I imagined the cries as he suffered. And the silence there must have been when the final blow was delivered.

“Please tell us you have good news,” the wife said. I couldn’t look her in the eye before slowly shaking my head and handing them the note.

I don’t want to remember the mother breaking down, clutching the note to her chest, repenting, begging for answers, demanding her child. I don’t want to remember the once stoic husband and father standing beside her with his face buried in his hands, sparing any attempt to console the mother of his child. Mr. Waldorf grabbed my shoulder, took my hand, and shook it while thanking me.

“You did what you could,” he said, “thank you for trying.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. This won’t go unpunished,” I said, but it was out of my hands at that point. He shook his head and let me go. I don’t want to remember turning my back to them as I walked away without the answers they craved.

So, nightly, I wander.

---

“Hey, did you hear the news?” Pete asked one night. “They found him.” I’d already knew this. It was national news at this point.

“Oh really, where?” I responded, already knowing the answer but interested to hear his version of the story.

“Not too far from here actually. Out on the road, behind a tree,” he said, repeating the facts he’d heard through every channel of news. The rest of what he had to say was of no interest to me. Hints of unearned gusto and confidence dribbled from his mouth as he hinted he would be the most capable combatant on this manner. The whispers of the diner revolved around the fate of baby and the impending trial against his kidnapper. The darkness of each night since the news broke hung hazily in the air as everyone in the city remained hypervigilant. As a result, the beacon that was Phillies, shone brighter, capturing any stray moth that dare wander its way. I never saw a familiar face these nights. Their empty eyes remained downcast as they were served the house special and left to ponder their own insecurities. Despite its hospitality, no additional comfort came from the fellow wanderer. Alone I sat, waiting for answers that wouldn’t come.

That was until I felt the glaring scowl upon my neck from the opposite street corner on the other side of that glass. He tipped his hat as my eyes caught his from across the diner, making his way to an adjacent empty seat.

“How you doing?” he asked me. His face sagged, his eyes with deep, dark circles from a lack of sleep.

“I suppose that’s not as important as how you’re doing,” I responded. He only responded with a low groan. I couldn’t think of a gospel that would shrink the magnitude of his current situation. So, we sat in silence. He ordered black coffee, extra strong, taking sips for a while before looking at me. I hadn’t ever observed him so closely, the lines of his face dug deeper than they had just a few, short months ago. He wore an untucked, half unbuttoned white shirt folded at the elbow revealing his forearms. His stained tie hung loosely around his neck, a noose he was no longer accustomed to. His eyes seemed glazed over and empty as he stared into the ripples of his coffee cup. He was no longer the stoic figure I’d once know – he was closer to a homeless man than a Waldorf.

“Take this,” he said handing me a small wad of cash almost out of thin air, “consider it a thank you.”

“For what?” I asked, wary of potential blood money.

“For your help.” I thought he must be joking, but the sincerity in his eyes said otherwise. Those were the last words he ever spoke to me. The money sat on the counter as he wandered out of the café and down the city streets, taking long drafts from a cigar. I made sure he was long gone before I ever considered touching the penance. No amount of money could soften the sight of a child broken to pieces.

“Pete, another round.”